


Tied Up In Knots

by LadyKes



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKes/pseuds/LadyKes
Summary: Jack had a secret.  Well, he had lots of them, actually, but in this particular context, the secret was this:  he knew how to crochet, and he liked it.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	Tied Up In Knots

Jack had a secret. Well, he had lots of them, actually, which was a consequence of being a soldier, a detective, and an adult (not to mention those “assignments” during the war). But in this particular context, the secret was this: he knew how to crochet, and he liked it. 

He’d learned from his mum when he’d been just a lad. He’d been ill and confined to bed for a week, which had meant that he’d been in an utterly foul mood. Out of what was probably sheer irritation and desperation at his whinging, she’d handed him a crochet hook and some yarn. She’d shown him how to make a basic double crochet stitch and then left.

At first he’d thrown the whole lot to the end of the bed - crochet and yarn work in general was _girly stuff_ \- but boredom had won after several minutes, as his mum probably knew it would. He picked the hook up and found the end of the yarn, then started trying to figure out how it all went together. By the time his mum came back with milky tea and a biscuit, he had a rather wobbly scarf started.

He’d stopped it as soon as he was allowed out of bed, of course. Playing outside with his mates was far more interesting once he was well enough to do it. Still, every time he was ill and grouchy after that, his mum silently handed him a ball of yarn and a hook. It became part of getting better all the way through to adulthood.

The next time he’d done it even a bit regularly had actually been during the war, in the trenches. They were often sent woolly garments from various ladies’ groups, and there were always spares, especially after a heavy bombardment. Most men just used them as they were delivered and at first Jack had done the same. One day, though, his outfit had been on day six of being essentially trapped in their little corridor and he was quite frankly bored and nervy. He started unraveling one of the spare scarves and then found his fingers running over the yarn as they would have done when he was a boy. It gave him an idea. 

One of the other men was a dab hand at whittling, so Jack sketched out the basic shape of a crochet hook and handed it over. It took some time for Osborn to find what he considered the right material and Jack almost forgot about it until one day the man handed over a wrapped parcel. Jack took it, nodded to Osborn gratefully, and then put the item in his pocket. Later that night, in his dank little corner of the trench, he pulled the crochet hook out and felt it. It was perfect, sanded smooth and properly hooked, weighted just right. 

After that, Robinson became somewhat known for crocheting to take up time. At first he’d been given a bit of stick for doing something other than playing poker, draughts, or dice, but he didn’t care. While he crocheted, he thought about Rosie and his mum and often mentally composed that week’s letter to them both. He wasn’t going to apologize for something that helped him feel more human in an inhumane place.

Eventually no one really cared, especially since he wasn’t bothering anyone. Also, they’d seen the scarves he’d made for himself, and then the fingerless gloves, and especially the socks. His efforts were often better than the original garments had been once he’d had a bit of practice. He'd essentially been making his patterns up as he went along, after all. After that, the ridicule turned into quiet requests for repairs or new items. Jack just smiled and agreed, since there were only so many scarves he could make for himself and everyone always needed more dry socks. 

The habit fell away again after he’d been demobbed and gone back to normal life. Rosie had been a knitter, not a crocheter, and even if she’d had a crochet hook in the house, she would have been shocked to see him use it. She wanted him to be a very particular kind of husband and policeman, and crocheting didn’t fit into that. He didn’t miss it, although he would occasionally run his fingertips absently over a bit of her half-finished work to help him think if his current case was particularly difficult and she was out of the house. 

Now he was divorced, though, and the house was very empty, with no yarn to run his fingers over to help him think. He remembered watching Miss Williams crochet at Miss Fisher’s, watching her hook flow in and out of the wool as if it were an extension of her hand. He’d never been so fluid at it, and he wondered how long she’d been doing it. Had she been handed a crochet hook and knitting needles as soon as she could hold them? He thought it was likely, considering what he knew of her upbringing.

He’d been invited for lunch to celebrate the successful conclusion of a case that Miss Fisher had, inevitably, meddled in. Miss Williams was sitting quietly in the corner working and waiting for Constable Collins to arrive. She’d tried to leave, but Miss Fisher had pointed out that the light was better in the parlor. The pattern Miss Williams was working seemed complex, and he knew good light was needed for that. It was why he’d stuck to simple stitches in the trenches. There was no light whatsoever sometimes, much less good light.

“What are you making, Miss Williams?” 

He was careful to keep his tone casual and friendly, since Miss Williams still seemed a bit timid around him sometimes.

“It’s a baby blanket, Inspector,” she said, and held the work up for a moment so he could see. “My oldest brother’s wife is having her third, and I always make a little blanket for the cot. Every baby deserves a new blanket.”

He nodded. That was very much what he’d expected her to say. It was just the kind of person Miss Williams was, too, to make sure that even a third baby had new things. He kept speaking in a casual, friendly way.

“Are you using treble stitches?” 

She nearly dropped her work and a stitch when he asked that, and Miss Fisher’s attention shifted from the cocktail shelf to their conversation. Well, that was inevitable, he supposed. He’d given her a new detail about himself, and she did seem to enjoy those, just as much as he enjoyed new details about her. 

“It’s actually a half-treble, Inspector,” Dot answered after a moment. “At least for this bit. Do — do you know anything about crochet, Inspector?”

She probably thought his wife or his mum might have mentioned it once or twice, and part of that was true. 

“My mum crochets,” he answered, and saw her face change as if she felt she knew the story now and everything made sense again. Miss Fisher’s face hadn’t, though. Miss Fisher was always more suspicious than Miss Williams. It was maddening and admirable. 

“She showed me a few things when I was a nipper,” he continued, and both ladies smiled, probably at the mental image of a small Jack Robinson watching his mum crochet. It was an amusing image, he knew. 

“Well, I’m sure you were an excellent pupil, Jack,” Miss Fisher said with a raised eyebrow. He made some noncommittal gesture and the conversation moved on, but he wasn’t naive enough to think that Miss Fisher had forgotten it. She would mention it again, he was sure, and probably when he was in the middle of examining something very delicate. 

Months went by, though, and she didn’t. Miss Williams finished the blanket and began working on a very small cardigan. Jack began to unravel a jumper that he’d accidentally shrunk in the wash while he thought about cases. He supposed he could have bought wool for himself, but he liked unraveling something to make it up again. 

He still had that crochet hook tucked in a corner of a drawer, ready for use. It was worn shiny and was also slightly singed. An incendiary bomb had landed in the trenches once and his kit had been on the edge of the damage. He hadn’t complained about the burned items since it had only been his kit and not himself. Other Diggers hadn’t been so lucky. 

A knock on the door surprised him, and he stuffed the half unraveled jumper behind his chair. He wasn’t expecting anyone tonight, which meant it was probably news he didn’t want. Likely it was a summons back to the office. Still, he needed to answer the door, and he did.

There was a messenger there, carrying a parcel. He hadn’t ordered anything, but Jack took it and offered the lad a tip. He closed the door and took the parcel into the kitchen to open it. The paper was good quality, but there was no store label. He still had no idea what it was or why it was here, so he opened it very carefully. Inspectors had been known to get unpleasant surprises now and then. 

This surprise wasn’t unpleasant, though. Inside were three beautiful skeins of soft wool and a note.

_To help you tie yourself into knots._

The note wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. The quality of the wool and the words of the note were a signature all their own, and he smiled. Trust Miss Fisher to do something so thoughtful. Some might think she was a flighty society woman, but he knew better. He knew there was a brilliant mind to go with the beautiful face. He knew her, and he wanted to know her better, which was something he’d only recently begun to allow himself to think. 

He certainly was tied up in knots, and at this point he wasn’t sure he’d ever become untied.


End file.
